Control of the Knife
by Baby Doll Gone Wrong
Summary: An urban legend of the LA art scene, Johnny attempts to debunk his status, only to fall deeper into the underground world he unintentionally left behind.


_Title:_ Control of the Knife

_Synopsis:_ An urban legend of the LA art scene, Johnny attempts to debunk his status, only to fall deeper into the underground world he unintentionally left behind.

I do not own JTHM. (Shall apply to all later chapters)

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_ Chapter One:_ Can't Sleep, Can't Eat, I'm Sick

_Setting:_ LA Area, Mid 90's

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I never smoked.

It's a disgusting habit; a vice I vowed to never take up. Yet there it was, a cigarette filling the gap between my middle and index finger.

It had only been a few weeks into my 'desensitization' when I realized the therapeutic effects of nicotine outweighed the risks.

I already killed myself, I rationalized; what worse harm can I inflict to my body

Taking a long drag of the cigarette, I leaned my arms against the boardwalk's railing. The metal, warm to the touch, was a shock to my perpetually frigid hands. On the horizon, surfers contended with the infamous Westward pipeline, and sunbathers tanned themselves to a crisp.

I never liked Malibu.

- Specifically Zuma Beach. If one observed closely, they'd realize that its locals are slightly more contentious then the occupants of Malibu's other waste-ridden beaches.

As I mused, a skateboarder passed by, barely missing my foot. I flashed him a dirty look. Bowing his head, the boy muttered various obscenities.

Instinctively, I reached into my pocket; however, instead of blades, I retrieved a pack of unfiltered Camels. Pausing, I waited for a voice to say 'you're always a slave to something'; but there was silence – a recent phenomenon that I'd come to appreciate.

"Noodle Boy?"

Perhaps I had been wrong…

"Valencia High School, Class of 92? Johnny C, is that you?"

For a moment, my brain drew a fog. Due to…certain circumstances, memories of my Alma Mater weren't particularly fond; that is, if I had any. My mind was selective, worsening with each and every thought.

Nodding in acknowledgement; though mostly out of politeness, I watched as a smile emerged on the girl's face.

Lifting up her aviator sunglasses, she revealed her name.

I instantly forgot.

She asked if I remembered her.

I replied yes, even though I didn't.

Though we'd only been talking for a few minutes, I was already on my third cigarette. Bringing her right hand forward, the girl blew away the smoke, with obvious disgust.

_Good_, I thought smugly.

"I…heard about what happened. How you got ill, and …" The girl stopped her sentence, noticing my discomfort. Though I wasn't at privy to reveal my innermost thoughts, I felt the need to elaborate.

"I wasn't able… College was too…" Maybe I would've continued, if I had the strength to piece together coherent phrases. But like most of my talents, that ability had long vanished.

She placed her palm on my shoulder. "Are you alright?"

I felt my hands shake; I was craving something, but it wasn't nicotine. Digging a nail into my wrist, I wished I still carried a knife. But not to direct harm at others - to inflict pain upon myself.

"I understand your plight. This should've been my last year. Unfortunately,_situations_…presented themselves, and wasn't able to accumulate enough credits."

Ah, I was familiar with situations; the vague occurrences I often found myself tangled up in. Like talking to a girl.

Without warning, an annoying noise contaminated the perimeter. It was her beeper.

Reaching down for the device, she pinned a wisp of blonde hair behind her ear.

"I should take this." I nodded and told her hope to see you again, when the truth was, I wished the exact opposite.

I never say what I mean.

-

It's amazing how in the height of McCarthyism hysteria, when the slightest triviality could get you blacklisted as a Communist, planned communities managed to thrive. Rows of identical houses, right down to the seafoam green bathroom tile; now try to tell me that doesn't scream out social reform?

Prime example - Valencia, California. My childhood slice of suburbia; though I can debate dystopia.

Pulling up to a familiar address, I made a right turn into a circular driveway. Tentatively opening the car door, I debated entering the house. Revisiting the past is a dangerous game.

Well aware of the complications that might arouse if certain memories were triggered, I reached into my pocket and removed a pair of rarely used keys.

I had stopped at the post office. Two plastic crates of mail occupied the back seats of my car. Both were filled to the brim with royalty checks, personal letters from acquaintances suspicious about my falling-off the face of the Earth, and junk mail.

I dragged a crate of mail onto the porch and began sorting through it.

A few of the letters appeared urgent; particularly ones from the lawyer to my parent's estate. He was in the process of declaring me dead. I wondered which individual that would be advantageous to; perhaps a distant relative.

Among the rest of the crate, I found another letter of importance; from my Art Dealer. When I was…still alright, my parents had contacted an art dealer, who was quite impressed by my portfolio. I arranged for him to sell a few of my earlier pieces. From what I remember, I generated some buzz throughout the LA Art Scene. But then I got ill, and… faded into obscurity.

As a sharp breeze pierced the thickness of my windbreaker, I decided to enter my former residence.

Stepping into the foyer, I found myself gazing in awe at the spiral staircase. Disregarding the rest of the house, I immediately headed for my room.

Slowly creeping up each step, I made sure not to slip on the fine layer of dust that had accumulated on the oak floor's surface. By the time I made it to the top landing, I was already winded. My personal neglect had led to anemia, among other nutritional deficiencies.

Fortunately, my room was at the opposite end of the hall, a good distance away from my parent's room. I couldn't stomach the thought of passing it.

Pushing open the door to my room, I felt a strange sense of nostalgia as my eyes met the Nirvana poster pinned to the opposite side of the wall. Though the edges had long curled, it didn't really matter. It was the same. Everything, down to the most indiscriminate toiletry, was exactly the way I'd left it.

I jumped onto the bed. Bringing my face to the pillow, I breathed into the sheets. They were musky; however, my mother's floral scented laundry detergent still lingered. As that thought seeped in, I felt my eyes dampen. I couldn't, I needed…

With my right hand, I reached for the side-table drawer. Pulling it open, I rummaged through the random paraphernalia that accumulated in its 2x2 space. My eyes widened as came across magazines, cassettes, Vaseline, and aluminum packets that had once served a purpose. For a moment, I wondered if I'd really been such a, well, _teenager_.

I slid open the mirrored closet doors. Rows of Levi's, acid wash to sandblast, neatly folded onto hangers. Below, a few pairs of beat-up Chuck Taylor's occupied the first shelf of a shoe rack.

I removed a pair of denim from its hanger. Unfastening my belt and letting my pants come undone, I slid my lanky legs into the jeans. Stepping back, I gazed at my reflection in the closet mirrors.

The jeans, which appeared to be a size too big, hung from my waist lopsided, revealing the navy-blue fabric of my boxers. I'd lost weight since high school. Unconsciously, I ran a hand down my stomach. I could feel my hip bones jutting out.

Bringing my right wrist forward, I gazed at my digital watch's display. It was past 3:30. Too last in the afternoon to have lunch, but too early to have dinner. I decided to delay any nourishment. It's not like there was food in the house.

…I needed a distraction. Eying the boom-box on my dresser, I reached over and tuned the radio-dial; the first clear channel was 102.7, KIIS fm.

A song had just ended, and there was a slight pause, however, the silence was quickly pierced by the obnoxious opening to "California Love", sung by a_certain_ artist that desperately needed to experience the violent circumstances he often rapped about.

I never liked Top 40.

As I reached over to shut off the radio, my eyes met a ceramic picture frame. Gazing at the photo, I felt a chill creep down my spine. Something compelled me to pick up the frame, and I found myself reminiscing on the portrait. It had been taken by photography major. The unique distortion of hue, caused by cross processed slide film, captured my adolescent self in a nigh-sinister light. As I flicked the radio switch off, I placed the photo face-down on the dresser.

I liked that photo.

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_Trivia:_

The artist who sang "California Love" definitely experienced the violent circumstances he often rapped about.

(Inconsistency) Valencia High was opened in 1995, so Johnny couldn't have been the class of '92.

...(Random) Anyone remember owning a beeper?

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_Personal Thoughts: _

I want to make this the most original, easy to follow JTHM fics out there. I'm not the brightest crayon in the box, so I find quite a few fanfics too convoluted to follow. On the other hand, I am disgusted by this chapter. He's too OC. It's like "Catcher in the Rye: The California Days". (Actually, that sounds kinda cool, I'd read that) I also dedicate this to my generic music aficionado acquaintance. I'm _sure_ you like FOB in the 8th grade.

Comments/Thoughts would be greatly appreciated.


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